


Broken Sanctuaries

by PenelopeAbigail



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blink and you'll miss it, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Present Tense, The noncon is VERY nondescriptive, Unhappy Ending, not satisfying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29526180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeAbigail/pseuds/PenelopeAbigail
Summary: They are mocking him, laughing at him, and he can do nothing.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at two in the morning, within an hour, and then posted it immediately before going to bed.

_Please…_

The air is soft, light and caressing against his skin, slightly cool—but witchers do not shiver.

His head is splitting, and his ears are ringing, and his eyes are squeezed so tightly he feels as if he will injure them.

He can still feel, though, and he feels blood—lots of blood—blood thickening his hair and coating his neck and dripping down his forearms from his wrists and the coarse, hemp rope slicing them open behind his back. He feels damp leaves sticking to his face, his stubble.

The ground is below him and he is lying on his stomach. There is rope linking his bound wrists to something—something also behind him.

His head is splitting and he wants to close his eyes, but they are already closed, so he jams his head into the leaves and dirt and twigs and grinds until he can hear again and his eyes do not feel like hellfire.

He can hear again, and he hears the trees rustling, the leaves leaping and fluttering, and— _Please don’t_ —and grinding. The leaves are being crushed. Something heavy and unyielding is scraping the ground, pulverizing the delicate dead leaves.

Movement.

That is movement. Something is being dragged over the leaves, something that is making sound--but at a distance. Not here, with him. 

There is nothing here with him. 

The movement stops, stills, and the something makes more sound-- _No, please._

The movement is too far away for him to hear more clearly, to understand what is going on.

What else is there? What else can he hear?

Breathing.

There is breathing, a lot of it, breathing fast and shallow, slow and steady, rapid and pronounced, sluggish and light. There are people here, several. Lots.

_Hold him down._

How many?

Heartbeats, he hears heartbeats, eight of them. There are eight people. Nine, including him, but he does not count. He does not count.

_Please._

What is going on? Why does he not count? Why are—

There is a scream, broken and afraid and hurt, and he hurts.

He wants to stop it, to hurt that which caused such anguish, to comfort the scream.

But he does not count. He can do nothing.

The scream hurts him, hurts his soul, but he cannot stop it. He is crying, and he is struggling and his wrists are bleeding. He lifts his head from the ground and tastes sweat and mildew and rot. There is something in his mouth--a cloth. He cannot lick his lips like he wants. He cannot speak like he wants. He cannot save like he wants.

The scream dies, and there is quiet, and in that quiet he hears clapping.

The sound makes him angry, but he does not know why.

Then there is another scream, another cry, another plea.

It is a _desperate_ plea, and it makes him angry, makes him sad.

His mind returns.

~

They do not care about him. What can he do to them?

They think they killed him, split his skull open, but they must know that he is not dead. They tied him up, bound his hands and gagged him.

They know he is not dead. They know he is watching. They want him watching. They want him seeing.

He is being mocked, and he can do nothing.

The rope winds around and between his wrists over and over, connecting him to the tree with multiple lines. They know his strength. He cannot escape.

He does not want to watch.

They are mocking him, laughing at him, and he can do nothing.

~

He chews.

The cloth is foul, but he does not stop. He chews and grinds and crushes until the fibers are splitting and falling apart and out of his mouth.

The men are gone, all seven of them, left some time ago, and he is too far away from the other body to see or hear or ask if he is okay—if he is alive. He is too far away.

He chews through the rope, twists and turns and cannot maneuver his wrists anywhere near his mouth so he rests his face against the tree and chews. His cheeks are scraped bloody, his jaw aching fiercely, and his nose scratched raw, but the rope snaps between his teeth.

It is dark, nearly dawn.

The man across the clearing has moved—very little, but he has moved. He is alive.

~

The little flower is beaten, battered, and broken. There is blood smeared all over, joints out of place, bruises where they do not belong, and bones bent unnaturally.

There is breath, shallow and rapid, and a heartbeat, shallow and rapid.

He approaches slowly.

A flinch and a whine.

~

Little flower does not speak, not when he cleans and cradles and carries, not when they ride and sleep and hunt, not when a precious and delicate instrument is gently pressed into new hands.

Little flower does not speak, and little flower does not sing.

~


	2. The After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why I've continued this. Where did the idea of this even come from?  
> Notice, I've changed the tags.

Dandelion is near catatonia whilst Geralt cleans and sews and patches him up. He flinches at every touch but does not cry out.

Geralt knows the bard has no tears left to shed, no voice left to utter. He should have passed out hours ago but he did not, and he does not now.

He does not look at Geralt.

Geralt gently, oh so gently, lifts him and carries him away, carries him for miles, until water is heard. The horses are gone, stolen, and Geralt vows to reclaim them, vows to deliver vengeance and justice, but right now, he carries his unresponsive friend to the water and begins to wash.

Dandelion does not look at Geralt as the witcher washes away the blood, cleans the scrapes and bruises, and rinses the vile liquids long dried from his skin.

Dandelion does not speak to Geralt as the witcher jostles the broken ankle, resets the dislocated shoulder, and sews the atrocious bites closed.

He cannot help, however, the hoarse scream as the witcher pulls the arrow from the calf so as to tend the wound. He does not care, though.

Dandelion does not listen to Geralt as the witcher apologizes for the pain, informs of the next jar, asks questions about wellbeing.

The bard does not look, does not speak, does not listen. He is catatonic to the world, enclosed safe and without fear and pain in his head.

Dandelion swallows the water when Geralt brings it to his lips and then closes his eyes to sleep.

It is not dusk yet.

~

It is the witcher who wakes from a nightmare, afraid and sweating.

He dreamt of that night, of that random attack, of those men dragging his wounded friend through the woods so that the witcher would see and hear and smell and do nothing.

The night is hot and humid, and the fire is still strong. The bard is still asleep.

~

They had been hungry, so they had stopped to camp, set traps, and go hunting. Geralt found the camp in the midst of a ransacking, Dandelion pressed against a tree with wide eyes and a pale face. There was a man there, holding the dagger to the bard’s chest, smiling with cunning teeth, fondling with wandering hands.

Geralt did not notice. He noticed the scene as a whole, not its individual parts. He noticed the two men near the horses, the one by the bard, and the five digging through bags that did not belong to them.

He had been out hunting. He had his sword. He had his stealth. He had his adrenaline.

The ones with the bags were the closest, saw him first, and were the first to die, all five, all within ten seconds.

But when he turned to the one by the bard, there was not one. There were four.

They also knew stealth.

As did the one with the club behind him.

~

Another nightmare wakes the witcher. Again, he is afraid and sweating. Again, his friend is his first thought.

He twists, searches, and finds the bard laying still on his side.

He is okay. He is alive.

~

Days pass on the silent road, the journey slow.

Geralt carries his friend as long and as far as his burning muscles will allow, and then rests and waits. His muscles recover and he gently positions Dandelion in his arms once more. The bard does not make a sound, does not move.

They travel through the night, through the rain, through the fog, until a town is seen. Geralt fears it is a superstitious town, but he has no choice. He does not hesitate.

He has no coin, but he does not care. He will do anything for his friend.

~

There was fire, burning up and down his neck, singing his hair and scalp, but it made no noise. There was screaming, terrified and anguished, devoid of hope. There was laughter; there was mocking; there were undignified and disgustingly lewd comments.

He could not understand them, could not make out the words, could not remember what it all meant, but he knew it was bad. He knew he should be angry, be furious and wrathful, but he was not. He was just afraid.

There was more screaming, more pain, but it was not him.

It was his only friend, attacked without provocation, attacked by unknown assailants.

Geralt could not save him, could not move, could not think.

He could hear, suddenly, and Dandelion was shrieking, with his very soul wrenched apart, yelling at Geralt, asking him amidst his screams _Why didn’t you help me?_

He wakes, afraid and sweating.

~

Dandelion awakes from his catatonia on the third day, on the first morning in Slavvey.

Geralt is sitting near the hearth tending the fire when Dandelion sits up slowly, making great noise in the quiet morning.

Geralt rushes to his side, asks questions, tends to his needs, but the bard says nothing, looks nowhere, and hears nothing.

Geralt has bread and milk and gently sets them in the bard’s lap and hands, and Dandelion eats.

He chews slowly, his face blank, and he looks up at Geralt with empty eyes, asking if the world held any light at all within.

~

His neck was on fire. His scalp and head were burning, his hair singeing, but he could not hear it. It was just a feeling, there but not--distant. He heard screaming, desperate and pained, calling for help. He heard laughing, and mocking, and horribly vile things.

He wanted to attack, to kill, to destroy, because _how dare they_ , but he could not. He was afraid. He was terrified, burning from the fire, burning from the acid ropes looped around his arms, burning from the shame that he was a coward.

He was a coward, and he was afraid, and his best friend was being cruelly ravished and mercilessly torn apart and he was _scared_.

Wide, petrified golden eyes met wide tear-filled cornflower blues. Tears spilled down cheeks red from blood, split bloody lips moved, and Geralt heard the words clearly, unmistakably.

_Why won’t you help me?_

He wakes, afraid and sweating.

~

Geralt agrees to slay a basilisk in exchange for the room and food. And he explains his absence to his silent companion, worried.

Dandelion nods, does not meet Geralt’s eyes.

When Geralt returns just before noon, Dandelion is exactly where he was left. Geralt suspects the bard had not once gotten out of bed.

The next morning, Geralt ushers Dandelion out of the room and into the market with him. They need supplies and the bard’s face lights up when he hears music, and they split up.

Geralt does not worry.

He finds Taruviel’s lute in a shop beside the armory, and his eyes fill with hate and his fists curl in anger. He does not steal it, but he does not want the bard to be without it.

He agrees to slay the basilisk in exchange for the instrument. The shopowner is surprised at such a low price, not knowing the value of the lute.

Geralt does not tell the man that the creature is already slain; instead, he disappears into the woods for several hours, pretending.

He charts their course out of town, finds a small babbling brook with fresh water and an apple tree, ripe and ready for harvest. Dandelion will be pleased.

He imagines Dandelion smiling, imagines the bard singing melodies beneath the tree, and imagines an apple conking his friend on the head.

All will be well.

He returns just after dusk, exchanges two legs for the lute, and finds his companion in a corner of the tavern, the table bare.

He gently hands over the lute.

~

His neck was frozen. His scalp and head were iced over, his hair clumped into icicles, and he could hear everything. He heard the scraping of the leaves as Dandelion was dragged closer, the rustling of the trees as a breeze shook the branches, the screaming and wailing of his friend as the men beat and raped him.

He was frozen and could do nothing.

He could not shake with anger; he could not pull at his bindings; he could not escape to stop them.

He was afraid. He did not know what to do, did not know how to stop it, did not know why this was happening at all.

He did not move, for he could not.

His friend was just shy of fifty yards away, close enough that he could see him still.

Dandelion was scared. They both were.

Dandelion was powerless. They both were.

Dandelion was in a great amount of pain.

He spoke, clearly, sorrowfully, painfully.

_Why won’t you help me?_

Geralt wakes, afraid and sweating.

~

With the lute found and returned, there is hope that their other belongings might also be found.

It takes weeks, but within a month, the horses are back, the packs are returned, and the witcher’s swords are with their rightful owner.

But within the month, the bard grows increasingly more ill.

The witcher and the bard depart when the bard is too ill to continue the journey.

“You must leave me, Geralt,” he says. The two have been in the town for a fortnight. “Go; be a witcher.”

“I will not leave you here alone.”

“You were always destined to outlive me.”

“I will not leave you alone.”

~

The ropes burned his wrists, shredding the skin in his attempt to break free.

There was screaming, wailing, and crying, and he was trying as hard as he could to stop it.

The rope snapped, falling away, and his swords were already in his hands.

He decapitated some, dismembered others, and slit the neck of the man hurting his friend.

There was blood everywhere, bruises where they should not be, and tears blurring large corn-flower blue eyes.

_Will you stay with me?_

**Until the end.**

~


End file.
